


Backstage 37 - Oaxaca Nights

by Aadler



Series: Backstage Stories [37]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aadler/pseuds/Aadler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The vacation from hell. Dark forces rising. What’s a cheerleader to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
**Banner by[GillO](http://gillo.livejournal.com)**

**Oaxaca Nights**  
by Aadler  
**Copyright December 2012**

* * *

Disclaimer: Characters from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ and _Angel: the Series_ are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

This story was done for the 2012 round of the “[Let’s Get It Done](http://letsgetitdone.livejournal.com)” Ficathon.

* * *

Beginning at the Playa Principal and winding over rocky oceanside cliffs in a set of bridges, paths and stairs, the Andador Escéncico (“Scenic Walkway”) passed beneath a lighthouse to some endpoint that Cordelia Chase couldn’t see from her current vantage. The temperature was in the high seventies, and the night breeze, softened by humidity from the ocean, was clean and cool and languorous. A near-full moon lit the terrace where her table was located, and glinted off the surface of the ocean in a latticework of diamond lace. Warm music drifted over the walls that separated the restaurant from other establishments. Her margarita was tart, smooth, and delicious, the glass rimmed in coarse sea salt with a distinctive tang she’d never tasted anywhere else.

The view from where she sat was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

She was sixteen, and looked twenty-two (though she would never admit her age to anyone at Sunnydale High, because that would mean admitting she’d ever exhibited enough brainpower to skip a grade, and who wanted to be known as a grind?).

She had once ruled SHS through money, style, and social terror, and — after relinquishing all that — was well on her way to doing it again by force of personality and sheer savage determination.

She had a guy back home who … Okay, maybe he loved her, and if she could ever finish the _horrendous_ fixer-upper process that would make him worthy of such commitment, she _might_ love him someday.

At one time she had helped save the world, and had lived through another near-apocalypse just a few weeks ago.

And, right now, she was bored out of her ever-living skull.

And _dissatisfied._ Because, however marvelous the present tableau might appear on the surface, there were serious, heinous undertones of nowhere-near-good-enough threading their way through the fabric. She could deal with hardship — she’d once weathered an entire weekend with nothing higher-quality than Aquafina — but some things were simply not to be borne by anyone who possessed an ounce of self-respect.

First of all, she was in Puerto Escondido. Not Cancún, _certainly_ not St. Bart’s, not even any part of the Riviera. ‘New and undiscovered’ was one thing, but ‘downscale’ and ‘backwater’ … mortifying.

Second, she was alone. Not with family, because her father had taken off for an emergency trip to Turks and Caicos (something to do with taxes and offshore who-the-hell-cares) and her mother was laid up in their suite with one of her ‘episodes’ (which Cordelia had described to her schoolmates, with theatrical exasperation, as all different kinds of maladies but which looked horribly like plain old clinical depression). Not independently mingling with appropriate companions her own age, or thereabouts, because this place seemed to be beloved of a lower class of tourists — plus the natives, of course, for whatever that was worth — but nobody remotely of her own status or any to which she aspired.

Third were the pelicans. They were everywhere, as bad as the seagulls at Venice Beach. A few would have been picturesque, maybe even a touch exotic; too many, and they began to feel like a new brand of vermin.

Fourth, the music wafting over the walls from the club next door was disco. Deliberately retro, rather than authentic Seventies crap, and with a definite Mexican flavoring to it, but still … _disco._

Fifth … was things she didn’t like to think about, or even admit she cared about. Such as whatever had happened to Her Royal Buffyness, vanished without any word after the world didn’t end, and no news in the weeks-shading-into-months since then. Such as whatever had been hanging in the air when Xander came out of Willow’s hospital room after Oz went in. Such as what had _put_ Willow in the hospital, and Xander in a cast, and Kendra in the morgue, none of which Cordelia had seen because …

… because …

Sixth, _she was in fricking_ **Puerto Escondido,** damn it!

This was a moment that, dramatically, should have called for her to toss back the remainder of her drink and stalk off the terrace. She was about halfway through a  _frozen_ margarita, however, and no fan of brain-freezes (skull-splitting headache? SO not a part of her life plan), so she simply sat where she was, sipping steadily and stewing on exactly what in this dismal gulag she might possibly be interested in doing next.

(If Xander were here, he’d probably be trying to scout out a bowling alley right now. If Xander were here, the two of them would probably be locking lips in some cabana, and she might be feeling generous enough — or stimulated enough — to consider allowing him access to third base. If Xander were here, she’d have to be on her guard to be sure he never saw how hard it was for her to meet his eyes.)

Summer, glorious summer. In picturesque, romantic Me-hi-co.

… Can you complain to the management (in this case, God) about the shoddy state of your _life?_

Drink at last exhausted, Cordelia rose from her table and made her departure. Not stomping out, not doing anything that would compromise her dignity, but moving as steadily and inexorably as a battleship. Even when no satisfaction was to be had anywhere, you could still maintain a  _presence._

Bored. Oh, God, so bored. Almost to the point of wishing for an apocalypse, just to have something to look at. It really was that dire.

To reach the exit she had to pass through the interior of the restaurant/cantina/tourist trap she had deigned, in desperation, to visit, and she automatically assessed and catalogued the patrons as she proceeded. When all else failed, there was still the possibility of occupying herself by keeping her social combat skills honed … but that, too, required a suitable subject population. Within her view was the same sorry selection she had already noted and dismissed with a grimace: surfers, backpackers, _middle-class_ tourists, and even native Mexicans cruising for a little resort relaxation. From the security of a properly disciplined entourage, she might have been willing to take occasional small dips into such a shallow pool, but on an unwilling solo outing? simply too dreary to bear contemplating.

She stopped, one elbow on a corner of the bar, not because anything had caught her interest but because she could think of nothing of any possible interest _elsewhere_. She was not practiced in self-analysis (though the capacity was there, she was innately scornful of anything that smacked of navel-gazing), but Cordelia had enough awareness to recognize that much of her current dissatisfaction sprang from a bleakness inside herself. So? She had no way of changing that, not anytime soon, which meant she needed some quality diversion so she wouldn’t have to _think_ about it. And, right now, prospects were dim indeed.

_Shouts, sounds of impact, the sharp fear-spurt of adrenaline so intense it made her skin itch. Danger, abrupt and calamitous and_ **unexpected,** _a combat situation none of them had been prepared to face. She wasn’t suited for combat, not the literal physical kill-or-die type, that just wasn’t her skill-set at all, so she did what she had to do._

_She hadn’t had a choice. Really._

_Buffy herself had told Cordelia she’d done the right thing. And Xander …_

Xander, with a battered cheek and a cast on his arm, and a bitter light in his eyes that said he was aching to get back out there and deliver some payback, in whatever way might be possible. Xander, with a fashion sense so horrendous it actually hurt the eyes, a quick and agile wit that somehow never manifested in decent grades, and a preposterous and utterly bottomless courage. He knew he couldn’t fight — not well, not really — but he fought anyway, whenever his efforts might make the least difference. He’d _run_ from a fight, if he could (and joke about it later, with himself as the butt of the joke), but not if that left anyone else at risk, not if it meant deserting an embattled comrade …

Oh God. Oh, God.

Cordelia had never been and would never be suicidal. Drugs, though, despite the blistering contempt she felt for stoners she might seriously consider drugs right now, anything to blot out the memories that nibbled at her spirit like a swarm of guppy piranha —

Movement at her elbow, and she turned and the bartender had set out a drink for her, something in a tall slender fluted glass with the obligatory little umbrella. At the challenging arch of her eyebrow, he smiled and explained, “Compliments of the gentleman,” with a nod toward the other side of the room.

Well. Okay. It might not necessarily be welcome (jury still out there), but at least this was _something._ Cordelia glanced in the direction indicated. No problem recognizing her donor, of course, he was looking straight at her with an inviting half-smile/half-grin, and as he raised his beer glass to her in ironic salute, she was already cataloguing him in lightning assessment.

Better than diversion: this might actually be promising.

He sprawled in the booth against the wall in a way that could have been slovenly, but instead projected a casual and almost aggressive self-assurance. His clothes, well, Cordelia already knew she was in the fashion capital of Nowhere, but the clothes were on the plus side of acceptable: denim pants, faded but clean and tight-cut, a red t-shirt tucked in neatly (instead of worn in the tail-out style-that-wasn’t-a-style but seemed to be taking over like a creeping blight), a wide belt with a plain brass buckle, sturdy well-worn half-boots of the general Doc Marten type. The man himself looked to be in his early to mid-twenties, hair a tousled light brown but cut fairly short; the lines of his face were angular and sharp-planed, with a mouth so finely-formed as almost to be called “pretty”. (In fact, the whole face might have dipped toward pretty, if not for the confident masculinity radiating out of the attitude.)

Promising, yes. Good or not, this would definitely be worth further attention.

His gaze moved from her eyes to the drink at her elbow and then back, and he made an open-hand motion that, along with the smile, said, _So?_ She shrugged, picked up the drink, and took a sip from the long straw. Oh, ughh, piña colada … except she didn’t like those because they were always too sweet, and somehow this one wasn’t. She took another sip, giving it a more careful and intense evaluation, and then favored her benefactor with a micrometer-precise nod of approval.

He made another gesture, toward the empty seat at his booth. Okay, points for confidence, but Cordelia Chase was not to be _summoned._ Instead she sat down at an open table a couple of steps from the bar, facing him; and, after a moment, he came to join her there.

She smiled at him: not a hard-edged smile (she had some that could flay skin), but one that carried its own warning. “I’m listening,” she told him, with some warmth but absolutely no latitude. “You haven’t bought my company, just a chance to convince me. But I’m listening.”

He actually laughed at that. _“Well,”_ he said cheerfully. “You’re a right proper sheila, yeh? But I’ll give ya this, you’ve got the class to carry it off.”

At the broad accent, Cordelia regarded him with an added touch of coolness. “Australian?” she asked. She had learned what that usually meant here. “Please tell me you’re not a surfer.”

“I’m not a surfer,” he said instantly, smiling. “Got some mates plannin’ to come ’ere ’n’ watch the Oxbow World Masters in August, but I’m just vacationin’ meself.”

“And trying to play up the local hotties,” Cordelia returned. “Because that’s what you thought I was, right?” An easy mistake to make, given her coloring and bone structure, but she tended to bridle at being taken for granted in _any_ way …

He dismissed it with a quick gesture. “Naah, I knew right away you weren’t local.”

“Really?” she challenged. “And how could you be so sure?”

“ ’Cause you’re here by yourself.” His grin was easy and disarming, and from the glint in his eye he well knew its usual effect. “Stunner like you? no Mexican father, husband, or lover’d ever dare let you out of ’is sight.”

Cordelia took another sip of her piña colada, mollified. “All right. And I guess you’d know better than to offer a  _señorita_ some cheesy tourist drink, even if this one is pretty much top class. So what’s your name?”

“Nick,” he said, still smiling. He held his hand out to her across the small table. “Happy ta meetcha.”

She took the hand, and gave it a quick impersonal squeeze before releasing it. “Well, Nick, I’m kind of in a mood tonight. Keep me entertained, and we’ll get along just fine. Otherwise, you’ll be back chewing on bloomin’ onions before you can blink.” She smiled, turning up her own personal wattage and watching it register in his eyes. “So, tell me some more about what a stunner I am.”

*               *               *

He took her to dinner at — of all places — an Italian restaurant called La Belle Vita. (“Are you serious? Come to Mexico to eat _Italian?”_ “Give it a try, pet. Think about it: Italian cuisine, prepared in Mexico with local ingredients, for a mixed local an’ international crowd? ‘Fusion’ to a T. And people absolutely rave about their _insalata caprese.”_ Which turned out to be true, and well deserved.) He took her dancing at the Tequila Sunrise Disco. (“Gag me! Disco is for drones. _Passé_ drones.” “So we’ll entertain ourselves laughin’ at the drones.” And they did, dancing together while sparring to see who could deliver the most scathing put-downs about the décor, the music, and the other patrons. Cordelia won, of course, but it wasn’t a runaway victory.) There was another place he recommended, a night club, but Cordelia balked at the name: Montezuma’s Revenge. Ten minutes later, Nick had his own revenge when she started toward a place with a sign identifying it as the Mirador, with _Lady’s Bar_ in slightly smaller letters. After his initial guffaw, he led her quickly away, explaining with gleeful triumph, “It’s a whorehouse, luv. No doubt you’d command top dollar, but it’s not really a top-dollar establishment.”

He was an excellent companion. Attentive, self-assured, good-humored and well traveled. Sufficiently handsome that she didn’t lose points by being seen with him, but not so much that his attractiveness threatened to overshadow hers. (Wasn’t about to happen, but even the threat would have been a cloud in her sunshine.) Laughing, vital, drawing pleasure from everything around them and somehow infusing some of that pleasure into her simply by his presence.

More than anything else, he was willing to _listen_ to her. Cordelia couldn’t remember the last time anyone had truly paid attention to what she had to say. Even those who feared her (the Cordettes and the common herd at Sunnydale High), accepted her (the ‘Scooby Gang’ — God what a lame nickname!), or desired her (Xander, and practically any male with a letter jacket), didn’t seem to take her thoughts, the inner Cordelia, seriously.

Nick … did.

After two hours of perfectly balanced entertainment and diversion, Cordelia had relaxed enough to be willing to lower some of her defenses. They had passed quickly through Pérez Galga Avenue (La Zona Adoquinada): brightly-lit and lively, replete with stalls of colorful handicrafts, tapestries, jewelry of silver and carved stone and even some that cunningly incorporated seashells, it was also where the vendors were most aggressive. Nick had repelled several overtures with an unflinching gaze and half-smiling warnings in soft, rapid Spanish that sent the importunate peddlers backing off fast, before the two of them finally won clear of the center of tourist targeting. Now they were back at the Andador Escéncico, following the path that paralleled the beach, in some places near enough to the ocean that waves wet the walkway, and Cordelia was speaking as earnestly as she could while still maintaining the necessary level of discretion. (What? She knew what the word meant.)

“There was this whole big drama back home, a few weeks before —” (whoops, couldn’t say ‘before high school let out for the summer’, she was still letting him believe she was older) “— before finals. A friend of mine —” (Buffy? a friend? well, what else could you call it without going into details that would have any normal person thinking you were totally looney-tunes?) “— had gone through a really bad breakup, and the fallout from that just kept … falling out. Anyway, it turned into this huge emotional crisis moment, and I was slammed with a situation where I had to _do_ something, quick, only the ‘something’ was something I couldn’t do.” (Fight, or run? more like _die_ or run. And RUN is the winner!) “Anyway, I did the best I could — and it really was the best I could do — but a lot of people were h–… got their feelings hurt over it, and I keep wondering if some of them think I should have handled it differently.” She wouldn’t look directly at him, but a darting glance from the corner of her eye told her that his head was half-turned to watch her as they walked, shadows and moonlight passing in ripples over that finely sculpted face. “Sometimes … sometimes, I think that myself.”

He was silent a moment, considering her words before asking, “Okay, what was it you should’ve done instead?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “There was this … like … confrontation. And I made a judgment call, and … and stepped out to let the others hash it out among themselves. The thing is, even if I think now that leaving was the wrong way to go — and I guess that is what I think — I still don’t know what I could have done if I had stayed. When it came to … to their _issues,_ I was just totally out of my depth. I didn’t know how to deal, and I still don’t.” She stopped, leaning back against the railing at this stretch of walkway. “But I really, really wish things could have been different.”

He turned to face her, head tilted slightly to the side. The moonlight turned his hair to silver, while a fluke of angle and shading made the cast of his mouth into something almost like a sneer. Even so, his voice was steady, thoughtful, sympathetic. “Sounds like you care a lot about your friends.”

Her laugh was sharp and harsh, but not as bitter as it might have been earlier. “Don’t go spreading that around,” she told him. “I mean, I do still have a reputation to maintain.”

His smile wiped away the cruel twist the deceptive lighting had imparted to his lips. “Right, then. But is it safe to say that you’ve managed to land ’ere in the perfect getaway destination just when you seem to need it the most?”

“Not even.” Her own mouth bent in disgruntlement. “You’re good company, Nick, but not even that can turn this armpit into a perfect _anything._ I get home, I’ll tell my friends I was somewhere less humiliating. Las Palmas, maybe. And I’ll _still_ complain.”

“It’s a shame,” he said. “I’ve ’ad a fine time showing you the sights hereabouts. Just seems such a waste, that you won’t take away _anything.”_

“I’ll always have the memories,” Cordelia answered with forced lightness.

“Maybe I can do you a touch better’n that.” Nick hooked a couple of fingers into the right pocket of his jeans, rooted around for a second. “Picked up a nice little something at the _Mercado_ the other day … yeh, here it is.”

His hand came out of the pocket, and Cordelia bent to get a better look at what he held. It was a bracelet, thick cords of metal worked around each other in different shades (the artificial saturation from the beach lights made it impossible to be sure, but Cordelia suspected she was looking at interwound gold, silver, and copper), with carved jet-black stones set at three points. “I got it ’cause I liked the workmanship,” Nick was explaining. “It’s too tight on me wrist, though, plus not really my style. I’m thinkin’ it’d suit you just right, now.”

Cordelia shot him a doubtful glance. She had an eye for quality, and was quite accustomed to being presented with pretties … but this gift, and giver, were both a cut above the norm for her. “Are you sure?” she asked.

He nodded. “It’s up to you,” he told her. “If you don’t want it, I can’t make you take it. If you’re willin’, though, there’s no place I’d rather see it than on you.”

Something in the phrasing tried to sound an alarm there, but Cordelia was focused on the bracelet. It truly was striking … and Nick was right, she would show it off, and it her, to the best possible effect. She held out her arm, wordlessly, her eyes still fixed on the artifact; and, smiling, he worked it around her wrist and did something — a loop, a prong, a catch, something — that fastened it into place.

“Well, that’s done, then.” His voice had changed: not just the tone and timbre, even the accent was subtly different. From his back pocket he produced a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out and placed it between his lips, lit it with a steel lighter that had somehow materialized in his hand. His expression was different, too, sly and satisfied and perhaps even a bit malicious. “Took long enough, and I thought you’d bloody yammer my ears off … but now we’re all set, and the night can _really_ begin.”

She stared at him, her thoughts suddenly too turbulent to sort out, and he smiled back at her. “And, just in case you hadn’t twigged to it yet —” He drew on the cigarette, let out a plume of smoke. “— the name isn’t actually Nick.”


	2. Chapter 2

Growing up in Sunnydale, you learned a lot of unwritten rules by a kind of psychic osmosis. _Anywhere after dark, watch out. — You can’t fight city hall, not about_ **anything.** _— Mace is a girl’s best friend. — Fools rush in, and are never heard from again._ And, there among many others: _Don’t ever think things can’t get any worse, they’ll do it just to show off._

Turned out, some of those rules weren’t true only of Sunnydale.

Cordelia gasped, stumbled, and almost fell again. A hard pull on her arm kept her upright, and didn’t _directly_ threaten to dislocate her shoulder. Undergrowth tugged at her clothing and at exposed skin, sweat stung her eyes, and she could seriously use some time in the ladies’ room.

Uncomfortable, undignified, unwelcome, and unsatisfactory … but she wasn’t complaining, and not only because it would have wasted breath to no purpose. Something was calling her, urging her on, and with the intimidating presence of her now-dominant companion guaranteeing the uselessness of any resistance, Cordelia couldn’t see the point in meaningless protest. Beneath the level of direct thought, however, something within her seethed and gathered itself, darkening with mounting anger.

Then he eased to a halt, the cruel grip on her arm fell away, and he turned to face her in the moon-washed Mexican night. “This should do it,” he announced. “Didn’t want to chance you makin’ noise back in the bloody tourist haven, but there’s no rush; ’ccordin’ to Spooky-Voice, you were caught soon as I got the bracelet on you, so let’s just see how this business plays out, then.”

Welcoming the respite, Cordelia let her breath settle before attempting speech, which provided the added benefit of time to organize her thoughts. At last she looked to him and said flatly, “Nick.”

This time there was no mistaking or explaining it away: that was definitely a sneer. “Told you, prom princess,” he said, his tone brutally dismissive. “ ’S’not my name.”

“I know. ‘Nick’. As in ‘Mick’? Mick Dundee?” She glared at him. “You copped an Australian accent — if that’s what it was supposed to be — from _Crocodile Dundee_?”

“Not a bit of it.” He flicked his cigarette away into the darkness, and regarded her with smirking amusement. “Drunk my share of Ozzies, I have, an’ I’m an _expert_ on accents. Not that I needed to worry too much about authenticity, not dealing’ with the likes o’ you.”

“Don’t talk about me like you know me,” Cordelia shot back. “You don’t know me at all.”

“We were never formally introduced,” he returned with heavy sarcasm. “But I heard you a few times in that bloody kids’ club in Sunnyhell … Bronze, was it? Voice that can blister paint, you’ve got. I don’t need t’know everything t’know enough.”

And that did it. The hair (not as light as described, but close enough, had he used some kind of gel to darken it slightly to fool her?), the accent (feigning Australian to mask his own), the cheekbones, the casual ruthlessness, and most of all the Sunnydale connection. He hadn’t worn the human mask during his brief appearance at Hallowe’en, and kept his back to her while threatening the still-enspelled Buffy, but … “Oh, God. You’re that lame-o vamp that Buffy squashed with a church organ, aren’t you? What was it? — ‘Spork’?”

“It’s _Spike,_ you daft bint!” His own glare was a quantum level of threat higher than hers. “An’ I know good ’n’ well you bollixed it up deliberate, just t’be takin’ the piss with me.” His voice lowered to something softer and infinitely more frightening. “Word o’ warnin’, Corpuscle: head games aren’t a good idea with someone who’ll tear yours bloody _off_ if he takes a mind.”

The danger here was real and terrifying … but also inescapable, so Cordelia did her best to jump past it. “What do you want with me?”

“Well, it’s not your sparklin’ conversation, that’s for sure.” He snorted contempt and impatience. “An’ if all I’d wanted was blood, I’d’ve taken it  _before_ I spent two solid hours listenin’ t’you prattle about.”

He had been right: his utter, unstoppable lethality, and willingness to apply it at a whim, were definitely muting her normal verbal aggressiveness. “But you didn’t actually say what you wanted,” Cordelia observed carefully. “Or where you’re taking me.”

Spike laughed. “If I understood it right, I don’t have to ‘take’ you anywhere. You’ll go, come hell or high water.” He studied her with lazy satisfaction. “Far as I know, it might _be_ hell or high water, or both. I’ll enjoy watchin’ t’see how that goes.”

The bracelet. That had to be what he meant: by accepting the bracelet, she had sprung some kind of trap on herself. Cordelia considered snatching it off and hurling it away into the … jungle? forest? _rain_ forest? … surrounding her, but Spike’s likely response quelled the thought for the moment. Playing for time (as long as they were standing here talking, they weren’t moving toward her probable doom), she asked, “So what’s going on? with this, this ‘business’ you mentioned?”

He was about to answer, she was sure of it … but then he stopped, his head cocking to the side in an attitude of listening. His nostrils flared, and he drew in a long, slow breath (oh, God, he was _smelling_ the air!). He looked to Cordelia, mouth tightening, and said, “Go.”

“What?” She hesitated, not understanding; was he turning her loose now? “What do you —?”

 **“Run!”** he roared at her, his features shifting into the familiar horrible vamp-face, and she took off on the instant.

(She was good at running, after all. In BuffyWorld, that was that she did best. Right?)

At first she was focused purely on speed, on making distance between her and the demon behind her. Once the first few minutes were past, though, as her breath began to catch in her chest and her shoes once _again_ reminded her that they had not been designed for safari, Cordelia began to vary her route, change direction unpredictably, move more slowly to reduce the noise she was making and watch for some promising place of concealment. And to listen, for some clue as to what might be taking place behind her.

Because _something_ was happening back there. Spike hadn’t sent her running so he could chase her, the not-so-naked prey; he’d had something else in mind, and then heard or sensed something that changed his plans. He’d sent her away to keep her clear of whatever he had stayed to fight or lead away, which meant he was protecting her, which — since he was an evil soulless killing-thing that didn’t _care_ about her at all — meant he wanted something that she had to be alive in order to provide.

Something to do with the damn bracelet.

Cordelia found a thick patch of brush, worked her way into it so she was at least semi-decently hidden, and tried to pull off the bracelet. It wouldn’t come off her wrist — no surprise, Spike had said it was tight and at least that much had been true — plus it was doubtless some kind of stupid damn dweeby magical artifact that didn’t _want_ to be taken off. In the dark, she couldn’t find how it had been fastened. She rooted around in her temporary hiding place; the soil was dry and stony, and she managed to find a couple of rocks, but trying to smash the bracelet open between them didn’t work, either. It wasn’t that the thing was impervious, she just couldn’t _hit_ it right; no matter what angle she chose or how carefully she struck, the rock simply glanced off with minimal impact.

Cordelia really hated magic. _Really_ hated it.

Okay. Running from Spike, and from whatever Spike had sent her away to avoid. Wearing cursed bling that was just _sure_ to guarantee she was going to be sacrificed somewhere. (And, damn it, the whole sacrifice thing had to be even more likely because she was still, technically, a virgin. She had to do something about that. Had to. Soon.) She was in danger of her life from at least two sources, maybe more, and nobody even knew about it. It was time to set some priorities and act on them.

So, as her first priority, Cordelia hiked up her skirt, peeled down her pantyhose and underwear, and squatted to pee, long and to immense relief. Then, pulling the pantyhose the rest of the way off, she folded one leg inside the other and dropped the two rocks down inside the double-layered fabric, working them to the end so that they rested inside the reinforced toes and then knotting the hose to hold them in place. A cautious exploratory swing satisfied her; it wasn’t much as a flail, would probably burst at the first strike, but it was something, and made her feel just the least bit less _absolutely utterly_ **hopelessly** helpless.

She knew nothing whatsoever about navigating in the wilderness. Still, this was wilderness surrounding a  _resort_ (or at least a town with resort-like appurtenances), and she hadn’t really come that far and had a rough idea from what direction she’d been traveling. She’d cope. Staggering back into civilization sweaty and scuffed and disheveled and Willow-Rosenberg-level styleless, while unappealing in the extreme, was still so much better than winding up disappeared, dead, and forgotten.

Clutching her improvised weapon and mustering her frayed nerves into something that could pass for determination, Cordelia set off.

*               *               *

It was half an hour before she became aware of the problem, another fifteen minutes before she confirmed it, and fifteen more to establish that she couldn’t overcome it: Cordelia’s path wasn’t under her control.

Maybe it would have been different if she could have set a straight course, or maybe not. In the rougher country outside Puerto Escondido, however, she _had_ to adjust her route every now and then, if only to walk around a thorny patch of brush instead of wading straight through it. Somehow, every adjustment, and the re-adjustment that came after the obstacle had been passed, seemed to nudge her just a bit out of line. And then a bit more, followed by more yet, until even Cordelia’s near-nonexistent woodcraft could tell that she was moving away from the coast and deeper into the wooded hills.

It was a lower level of the same hypnotic siren call that had possessed her while Spike was first hustling her away from the city. Less overtly overpowering now but deeper, more insistent, scrambling her perceptions until she couldn’t trust her own judgment. No wonder the Peroxide Punker had been willing to send her away: the bracelet had her now, just as he had said, and despite all her efforts she was still continuing in the direction she didn’t want to go. She could have wept in frustration. _How_ could one expertly blended piña colada have plunged her into such a ridiculous, sordid tar-pit of catastrophe?

She found another thicket and went to ground again, on the theory that at least sitting still wasn’t moving her any _closer_ to squalid, unfashionable death. Maybe she could wait out the night; maybe, in daylight, the spell-compulsion would fade or vanish, or she could see well enough to puzzle out the catch on the bracelet, or follow the sun toward the sea and find her way back to town, or _anything_ that might serve to improve her situation.

When she stopped traveling, though, she became more conscious of the night sounds. She was no Nature Girl, for her the call of the wild was strictly limited to bolder lipstick choices, and now the cheeps and creaks and rustles and various other unidentifiable noises began to wear at her composure. What kind of wildlife roamed the Mexican resort countryside at night? How many different species of _snake_ abounded out here? She had no idea, and her imagination ran riot with all the things that might threaten her even outside the supernatural arena. Jaguars, boa constrictors, giant scorpions … no, the way her luck was running lately she’d probably be rooted out and trampled to death by a herd of wild pigs …

Okay, that one out there right now? Definitely not a pig, or any social grouping thereof.

Cordelia huddled in her hiding-place, holding her breath and listening. Whatever was out there was big, and in no particular rush, and quiet. Not _trying_ to be quiet: the rustle of grass and leaves, the crunch of dry earth and small stones, were too regular for any efforts toward silence; it was more the quiet of something that naturally made no more noise than necessary. Steady, and deliberate, and — however much she might want to believe otherwise — undeniably moving toward her place of concealment. Cordelia gathered her legs under her, readied her rock-weighted pantyhose, and prepared herself to fight or die or just scream in despair and outrage.

(Note to self: next time hide under a  _tree,_ so at least you have something to climb if you’re sniffed out by a cave bear.)

It was there, outside the screen of bushes. She thought she could hear breathing; if so, most likely not Spike. Did it actually know she was in here? Was there any possibility it might just leave —?

The voice was mellow and resonant, the tone conversational. _“Venga salgan, señorita. No voy a hacerte daño … probablemente.”_

Crap. Cordelia spoke no more than a few words of the local lingo, but _señorita_ made it pretty clear that she was the one being addressed, meaning he knew she was here. “No hablo el Spanish-o,” she replied, doing her level best to sound unfrightened.

A pause, and then she could hear the smile behind the next words. “I said, Come out, I won’t hurt you. Probably.” More smile in the tone. “Not unless I have to, and no more than necessary; I’m not a barbarian. And, if you’ll excuse my saying it, you don’t have a lot of options at the moment.”

Well, that was certainly true, and the genial courtesy of the words — almost cultured — offered the tiniest ray of possible reassurance. Cordelia stood, brushed herself off, and pushed her way out of the bushes.

And gasped, or at least had to work not to gasp. Despite knowing better, she had let ‘human speech’ make her think ‘human speaker’. The thing she faced was … not. Man-shaped, and wearing a man’s clothes, but expanded in every dimension: maybe seven feet tall, and almost three feet broad. The face, too, was near-human, except the complexion was wrong; impossible to be sure in the moonlight, but it seemed blueish or grayish, and deep slashes were carved through the eyebrows and down into the craggy cheekbones.

He watched her take it in, and smiled. “Overwhelming, am I not?”

“Uh … huh?” Cordelia said dumbly.

A short laugh. “Sorry. _Logan’s Run._ The book was better, but I liked that line. Now, we have places to go, and soon, so let’s get the amenities out of the way. I’m Boone, and you are —?”

“C… Cordelia.”

The smile broadened. “See? That didn’t hurt a bit. Now, I’m not really interested in you, but in that bauble on your arm. And, call me presumptuous, I’m assuming you’d rather come with me than have me cut off your hand so I can take the thing without bringing you along.”

“You assume right.” Cordelia shook herself out of the daze that threatened to take her over; this night just kept getting more surreal. “The bracelet … what is it? What’s the story here?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Boone shook his head slowly. “I owe someone a favor, and delivery of the bauble will leave us square. And, just to sweeten the motivation, she may even be able to remove it without killing or maiming you.” He indicated direction with a sweeping gesture. “Shall we?”

“It’s a plan.” Her heart was thumping like a marimba, but Cordelia did her best to keep her voice level. As she stepped ahead, she added, “You may have to lead me. This thing … it has its own ideas about which way I should go.”

“Ah.” Another smile. “I should be able to handle that. Thanks for mentioning it.”

One huge hand closed on her arm, gently but with immovable solidity, and he guided her along the path he had selected. Cordelia realized she was still holding the pantyhose flail in her other hand; Boone had, clearly, dismissed it as irrelevant, not even worth taking away from her. Part of her felt insulted, but the overbearing majority was frankly relieved to find herself in such formidable custody. Not that she was home free (Boone had implied that he’d _rather_ not cut off her hand, not that he would never do such a thing), but it was still a huge improvement over William the “you’re not important enough to kill unless I happen to think it might be fun” Bloody.

At the thought, she looked to the massive demon. “Was it you that Spike was waiting for, when he sent me running ahead?”

Boone chuckled. “Is that who that was? Well, yes, the description matches, but we didn’t exactly settle down to chat.”

“So … you beat him?”

“Didn’t bother to try. We fought to the edge of a cliff, and then I threw him over. Well _out_ and over.” He chuckled again. “Haven’t had that much fun since the Ptarmiiki hive war. I suppose he might have been impaled on something at the bottom, in which case you could say I beat him. Mainly, though, I just wanted him out of the way so I could keep on after you.”

She thought about that. “You don’t even care whether or not you won?”

“Normally I might.” He glanced over to her. “Some things are for honor, some are for pride. The two may intersect here and there, but they’re not the same.”

Right. Killer of two Slayers, and Boone had tossed him aside without even troubling himself to confirm victory. No wonder her makeshift flail hadn’t concerned him. And yet she felt — and probably was — much safer now than before.

… Why, oh _why_ couldn’t her parents have stuck to St. Bart’s, as originally planned?

*               *               *

He had led her for an hour (farther away from Puerto Escondido, of course) when she was presented with the next installment in this unending series of heinous disasters. As Cordelia had hoped, the resolute hand on her arm forestalled the bracelet’s subverting influence; though her feet continued trying to turn her path, the looming presence beside her kept her moving as he wished. Even though he had offered her only the most limited choice in the matter, it was actually kind of comforting to find herself in Boone’s control.

So, when the arrow sprouted from his neck, she did not greet this as a welcome development.

He stopped and reached up to pluck it out, studying it with mild curiosity and rather more amusement. “Really?” he observed at large. “Seriously?” Then the horde descended, fast-moving figures assailing from all sides with curved sabers and halberds and God knew what-all-else. Much smaller than Boone (some shorter than Cordelia), he would have out-massed any four of them together, but in the first confused moments of the onslaught there seemed to be dozens of them, shouting war-cries and striking out with the utter totality of all-out assault.

Cordelia shrank back, bewildered by the too-abrupt onset of events and unsure if these new players constituted a new threat. Then one of them started toward her, and that settled it: garbed ninja-like in dark, close-fitting fabric with a hood and face-concealing flap, coming at Cordelia with the same frightening intensity of focus … Cordelia shrieked and swung the flail, lashing out wildly in sudden decision.

The outcome was depressingly predictable. Her attacker melted back outside the arc of the first swing and darted inside the second, hand clutching Cordelia’s throat — a hard, forceful grip that nonetheless didn’t seem designed to close off her wind — and said urgently, _“Cálmate, angustiada. He venido a rescatarte de un destino terrible.”_

 **“I don’t speak Spanish!”** Cordelia screamed. “God, I got this tan from a  _salon!_ Why does everyone keep thinking —?”

“I said _calm yourself,_ fool!”, and Cordelia realized that was a woman’s voice. Fierce eyes regarded her over the top of the face-flap. “We are here to save you, and my sisters are spending their lives to allow your escape. _Come with me if you want to live!”_

Had she … had she actually said _those words?_ Cordelia choked back hysterical laughter, but her resistance had vanished in the same instant, and while her brain was still struggling to recover its balance, the woman had grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her into motion. Before she had quite realized what was happening, Cordelia found herself running through the forest with the still-nameless newcomer.

Naturally. Spike, then Boone, now Ninja Girl. When exactly was it that Cordelia had turned into Princess Buttercup?

Spike had pulled her along roughly, impatiently, but without any particular hurry. Boone had set a steady, unvarying pace. This woman, by contrast, was clearly oriented toward speed and distance, almost as fast as Cordelia had gone in her first flight but ceaseless and unflagging. Cheerleader conditioning kept Cordelia on her feet, but she was having to fight for breath now and her shoes were steadily more excruciating instruments of torture. They were classic Danica Carlisles, she’d scooched a pair _ahead_ of the big show in Milan … but, oh, if only she’d gone out on the town in cross-trainers instead —!

The single mercy was that she didn’t have to choose her course through the chaotic night; her ‘rescuer’ led, and Cordelia only had to dedicate herself to keeping up. Still, it was a glorious relief when at last the woman slowed and came to a halt, and Cordelia sank gratefully to the ground, taking pressure off her ravaged feet and allowing her heart-rate to begin the return to normal. “Is it … too much to ask,” she panted grimly, “… if someone would please explain to me … just exactly _what the hell is going on?!!”_

The woman, too, was breathing hard, but she looked to Cordelia with stolid control. “I am Luz, of the Byzantine Sisterhood,” she said. She pulled back the hood, drew away the face-cloth, shook out her hair. Her features were stern, proud, thick brows and straight nose and thin, severe mouth, eyes dark and piercing. “You have been marked by a dark entity for a dreadful fate. I realize these things are difficult to understand, but I will try to put it into words you can comprehend. Briefly: the world is older than you know —”

“Been there, heard that, dropped the t-shirt in the Goodwill bin,” Cordelia interrupted. “You can skip the Dick-and-Jane version, Lucinda; back home, I work with the Slayer.” (Work? worked? what if Buffy never came back?) “Just skip to the payoff. Exactly how screwed am I, and what do I have to do to make it go away?”

Luz was studying her with what might have been reluctant respect. “The Slayer. That is … a name of some import. Very well. A malevolent force has awakened from enforced sleep, and seeks to walk once again free. We of the Sisterhood are tasked to guard the wards, but something … unprecedented, came to pass. We do not fully understand, for historically two artifacts must be brought together to loose the Slumberer, and you wear only one. Still, you have been marked.” From a sheath at her belt, Luz drew a dagger. “I have been schooled for many years in how this weapon may be used to banish the Slumberer; now, however, only you can do this. I will show how and when you must carry out the ritual, and I will go with you to the place where the unclean thing waits. You will seal it again into its sleep of exile … or, if for any reason you cannot, you will plunge the dagger into your own breast to forestall your possession and damnation.”

“What?” Cordelia stared at the woman. “Are you crazed? I’m not about to kill myself!”

“If that is what you must do, that is what you will do.” Luz’s eyes held Cordelia’s with the clear, unwavering light of a commitment forged so solidly that the very thought of forsaking it simply would not form. “So is it written. So must it be. Such is the will of God.”


	3. Chapter 3

In Cordelia’s admittedly limited experience, these issues of supernatural ickiness pretty much always started out with a wizard, a demon, and/or a prophecy; the particulars and combinations might vary, but the basic ingredients tended to remain drearily constant. Sure enough, the story Luz told contained two of the three. Cordelia frankly zoned out through part of the recitation — it had been a long night already, and the earnest types (talking about _you,_ Giles!) always thought every date and detail were of earth-shaking importance — but she caught the basic thrust of the narrative. Six or eight hundred years ago, some Aztec-Toltec-Olmec (whatever) shaman or high priest had got the genius idea to turbo-charge his power by channeling some mid-grade demon or other. (Luz told Cordelia the thing’s name, but to her it just sounded like somebody gargling.) Hadn’t worked out for the shaman — _Duh!_ — but the ceremonial death-mask utilized in the attempt continued to hold the demon’s essence captive. Every hundred years or so, the mask persuaded some sucker to put it on, possessed the wearer and destroyed his/her soul in the process, and raised merry hell for a few decades before the body burned out or some band of champions defeated the embodied demon and hid the mask away again. (Because, naturally, it couldn’t be destroyed. Hey, champions, ever try burying it in concrete?)

Since shortly after Cortez’s arrival in the New World, the Byzantine Sisterhood had been the champions who appointed themselves to the task. A few days ago, some major screw-up had occurred (Luz glossed over that part), the mask had gone walkabout, and the Sisterhood had been scrambling to play catch-up ever since. Cordelia, too little and too late, had been the lucky beneficiary of their efforts.

Once she figured she’d got the essential scoop, Cordelia said, “Here’s a thought.” She held up the arm with the bracelet. “How about we get this thing _off_ me, and then you and your ninjette sorority can deal with Big Ugly-Pants while I go back to lounging poolside?”

Luz shook her head. “Once the _mal de ojo_ has been locked on the Slumberer’s chosen vessel, only death can remove it. Your situation is somewhat different, in that you wear it without the mask, but …” She stopped, frowned. “Your situation is different,” she repeated. “Hmm. Perhaps. Perhaps. Let us see.” She reached out to take hold of the bracelet, probing it with firm, cautious fingers. Cordelia held her breath … but then Luz sat back with a sigh. “No, it is sealed, as I first thought.” She frowned again. “Only —”

“What?” Cordelia insisted. “What now?”

Luz examined the bracelet again, this time leaning close to use eyes as well as touch, though how much detail she could make out by moonlight was a matter very much open to question. “This artifact is not the one we have known,” she finally announced.

“What?” Cordelia demanded. _“What?_ God, you mean I’ve been marked by _some other_ demon?”

“No, no.” Luz waved it away. “According to our histories, the _mal de ojo_ was formed and consecrated to … to limit the Slumberer, to unfocus it, so that no longer would the mask alone be enough to impose possession. The effect of the sigils, and the invocations worked into them, are such that the _mal de ojo_ now functions as both lock AND key.” She sighed. “If I must guess, I would say that the demon had a duplicate made and hidden during a previous incursion, to offer an alternative escape from captivity.”

“And Spike somehow got his sticky hands on Sleep King’s spare key.” Cordelia groaned. “Is there no _limit_ to the pain in my life?”

“Spike?” Luz asked. “This is the creature my sisters occupied while I sped you away?”

“Huh? No, that was Boone.” (And had she maybe been better off with Boone than with this humorless holy warrior?) “Spike … he may not be as tough as Boone — _maybe_ — but he’s about five times as nasty. I’ve even heard he killed two Slayers.”

“Ah.” Luz nodded. “The Bloody One, killer of the legendary Xin Rong. And you say he is part of this affair?”

 _“Oh,_ yeah.” Cordelia held up her arm. “He’s the one who stuck the Bangle From Hell on me, and hauled me out into the boonies. Of such joy is my life made.”

“Indeed. The Bloody One, the scarred giant, the Slumberer —” Luz regarded Cordelia doubtfully. “You seem to attract … extreme events.”

Cordelia huffed impatience. _“Tell_ me about it!”

Since there apparently was to be no pre-emptive removal of the bracelet, Luz set to drilling Cordelia in the ritual that, once they were in the demon’s presence, would break its mystical hold on her and promptly return it to sleepy-bye. Far more involved than the background information Luz had provided, it paradoxically posed no difficulty for Cordelia. Time in the Library with Giles and Willow had inured her to ‘weird, gross, and _insane_ ’, and the elements themselves — timing, motions, proper chants — weren’t too much more complex than the cheer-routines she had done at football and basketball games.

“I had thought this would require more time,” Luz observed when Cordelia had repeated the “unloaded” form of the ritual four times without error. “Very well: you are properly prepared. Now we must go to where the Slumberer waits.”

Cordelia’s skirt had a belt: not really solid enough for martial service, but sufficient to secure the sheathed dagger when she tucked it in. “Yeah, straight into the demon’s lair, ’cause that’s _absolutely_ where I’ve always wanted to hang out for fun.” Cordelia stopped, cocked her head to one side. “Wait — you’re saying you know where Big Creepy hangs his hat?”

Luz smiled, the first such expression Cordelia had seen on the woman. “No … but you do.”

*               *               *

More walking.

Back in Sunnydale — for that matter, anywhere in California — Cordelia would have long since called a halt, found a phone, and pulled Buffy and the rest of the gang in on this horrendous mess. Out in the Mexican countryside, however, she had no such recourse; and, as her companion had pointed out, trying to go _away_ from peril didn’t work too well when the peril was locked around your wrist.

And pulling at you. Luz had been right: finding Slumber Putz was as simple as turning Cordelia loose and seeing which direction her poor, mangled feet would take her.

“We cannot stop,” Luz insisted. “We must press on.”

“I’m _dying_ here,” Cordelia moaned, sinking to the ground. She pulled off her shoes and did her best to massage her abused insteps. “Have mercy, Iron Maiden. Have _you_ ever tried to hike through the back of beyond in a pair of grossly mutilated Danicas? My agony is not for human words to describe.” She looked up at the other woman. “Besides, if my role in all this is so utterly vital, you don’t want me arriving for the showdown all _crippled,_ do you?”

Luz shook her head. “You … have fought beside the Slayer, you say?”

“Not so much fighting as fashion consulting and social mentoring.” More massage, more pain, more stoic forbearance under torture. “Look, I know my life is on the line here, okay? I’ll do what I have to. But I’m the one here who _didn’t_ go to Shadow Warrior boot camp, so you’ve got to cut me some slack.” She replaced her shoes, biting back a whimper, and stood again with a deep wince. “Lead on, Brunhilde. Oh, wait, it’s _me_ who has to lead, isn’t it?”

“You do not travel well,” Luz observed flatly when they started off again. “I hope that, when we reach our destination, your fortitude proves to be of higher caliber.”

“Put me in the spotlight, and I’ll deliver the goods, don’t worry,” Cordelia assured her. _(Yeah, I’ll take care of all the worrying here.)_ “As for us getting there, that works out so much better if my feet are still _attached_ when we arrive.”

They moved through the moonlit night together: Luz silent, stolid, tireless, Cordelia none of the preceding. She had long since lost track of time, but not so much as to keep from marveling at _how recently_ she had been totally crushed by boredom. Boy, what she’d pay now for a tall, cold glass of Bored …

What was Buffy doing, wherever she was right now? (Probably holed up in some dockside bar, blubbering in her beer. Okay, fine, you killed your one true love … but, newsflash, he was a  _vampire,_ and he was _evil,_ and he really really wanted to torture you to death. Get over it and get on with your life.) Or Willow? (Nothing too thrill-seeking for the Shy Nerd. No doubt she was wowing the instructors out at Space Camp or something … unless she _was_ one of the instructors.) Or Xander —?

Okay, don’t think about Xander.

God, she missed Xander.

Would this hellish night never end?

Luz broke through Cordelia’s reverie as they passed through yet another open area dotted by scrubby brush and started up yet another low hill. “I believe I may know our destination.” Cordelia paused, turning to look at her, and the other woman went on. “Close to here are the remnants of a Mixtec ceremonial center, not well known outside this area. That is where the course you have been following seems to lead us. If the Slumberer wished to seek a familiar place, this would be one such.”

“Seriously?” Cordelia said. “We’ve been headed for a  _lost city,_ and you didn’t think to mention that?”

“Not lost,” Luz corrected. “Simply not talked about. The local landowners know about it, but have no use for it and no desire to see their property overrun by archeologists. And not a city: some pyramids, covered in vegetation and difficult to recognize, and a ball court. The entirety stretches out over several acres, and you might not be able even to tell that you were in a place that had been man-made. Still, it is a location of some historical importance, and perhaps of power as well.”

“Uh-huh,” Cordelia said. “Look, they’re not set up for virgin sacrifices, are they? Because the whole virginity thing, a lot of that depends on how you interpret —”

“You may rest if you wish,” Luz went on, apparently without having noticed her companion’s interjection. “If we are so close as I believe, it is time that I prepare.”

Cordelia complied gratefully, but watched as Luz knelt, eyes closed and lips moving silently in some chant or prayer … and, yes, the woman crossed herself, so it must be prayer. At the end, Luz opened a pouch on her belt, dipped in two fingers, and used them to draw on her forehead (in some dark pigment or thick powder, and clearly by feel and familiarity) a stylized bird with upswept wings and an open, curved beak. At last, finished, she stood again.

“War paint?” Cordelia offered.

Luz shook her head. “All of us who choose this life assume a personal symbol when we enter active service. The red phoenix is mine.” She shrugged. “Our brother Knights affix theirs permanently, but they are … extreme. We in the Sisterhood prefer a method that allows us, as need arises, to intermingle with mundane society without attracting undue notice.”

“Right,” Cordelia answered. She pushed herself upright, resting her weight on tottery legs. “So, like I said, war paint.”

They went on. The tug from the bracelet became … not stronger, exactly, the compulsion was no more insistent, but it was more _there_ somehow, real if not definable in terms of strict perception, like when people across the room weren’t even looking your way but you _knew,_ from the tone of words you couldn’t make out, that they were talking about you.

Or, in this case, _to_ you.

“I think we’re close,” Cordelia said to Luz. “I mean, _really_ close.”

“Then, as I thought, it is to be the ancient ceremonial court.” Luz drew two short swords from shoulder-slung sheaths. “I will do what I can to protect you, but you know what you must —”

“Change of plans, ladies,” came the words, oh God _that voice,_ and Spike stepped from the shadows beneath a stand of trees, smiling with lazy satisfaction. He now wore the long leather coat that had been described as his trademark gear, and if he had in fact been tossed off a cliff, he wasn’t showing any obvious damage from it. “You, now, luv, I appreciate you deliverin’ the morsel, but I’ll be takin’ over escort duty —”

Luz went at him in instant driving attack, twin swords flashing: focused, powerful, lethal, and futile. Cordelia had never seen Spike fight, but she’d watched a few times as Buffy slugged it out with Evil-Angel, so she knew what a vampire at that level — one capable of holding his own against a Slayer, and don’t forget, Spike had _won_ two such confrontations — could bring to a fight. Spike moved ahead of each strike as if carrying his part in a familiar dance, sometimes fading outside the arc of a swing and sometimes slapping the naked blades aside with his own hands. He was _enjoying_ himself, damn him! Then the dance ended, Spike lured Luz into overextending on a swing and glided inside her guard, catching both arms and twisting them violently out in opposite directions. Luz cried out, Cordelia heard the crack of bone, and the swords fell to the ground.

 _“No!”_ Cordelia blurted, horror-struck. She didn’t even _like_ the woman, particularly, but this … and what she knew was coming next …

“Be right with you, luv,” Spike said to her, grinning out of demon-face. “Bit o’ strife warms the blood right up, so —” He took hold of Luz’s head, bent her neck, leaned in …

**“No.”**

It was the difference in her tone that stopped him, and he looked up. Cordelia held the dagger Luz had given her for the ritual. Held it in both hands, point turned toward her to rest between her breasts and angled slightly inward to the left. “No,” she said a third time. “Not this. You kill her, you lose me, too, I swear.”

Spike peered toward her. The distortion of a vampire’s real face made it difficult to read expressions, but Cordelia had the sense of _wary_ plus _intrigued._ “Well, now,” he said slowly. “Offin’ yourself, that doesn’t really strike me as your style. And for a stranger? … Sorry, don’t buy it. You’re bluffin’ here.”

“You need me for something,” she said to him, stony-voiced. “And I won’t live through whatever it is, I know _that_ much by your reputation. I can’t stop you, but I can hurt you … by _this._ If you think this is a bluff, then try and call it, you’ll find out fast enough.”

He continued to study her, and the grin came creeping back. “Shove a blade into your own heart? You don’t have the stones. You won’t do it.”

He was right: she wouldn’t. Killing herself, especially in such a direct and bloody and _painful_ fashion … no, that just wasn’t in her.

She couldn’t do it — but, by God, she could _sell_  it.

Cordelia steadied her hands on the hilt of the dagger, her eyes never leaving Spike’s, and let herself settle into the role. Her face sunk in sorrow (she didn’t want to die, she didn’t, but she _would,_ to avenge an ally and to honor a sacred vow!), and her lips moved in one of the prayers her family’s housekeeper had sometimes recited to satisfy her curiosity: _Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for me, a sinner, now and at the hour of my death._ Finding the commitment, the resolution, the _conviction._

She was there. She was set. She was the Martyr, ready to die for her beliefs. She let it settle into the core of herself, and then to Spike she said, “Your call, ass-wipe. Play or fold, it’s up to you.”

He continued to watch her, eyes steady. Luz was unmoving in the iron clutch of his hands, her eyes wide and face drawn in pain, but silent. Cordelia held her position, and her inward focus, making herself believe. The seconds stretched out —

“All right,” Spike said. He shifted his grip on Luz, stepped back from the woman, and snapped his fist in a short, brutal blow against her temple. Luz dropped bonelessly, and Spike turned again to Cordelia, his face melting back into the lying human mask. “So, she’ll live, ’less somethin’ else comes along to eat her.” He made an after-you-milady gesture. “I think you know the way, right?”

Cordelia didn’t move. “How can I know you’ll keep your word?” she asked.

He snorted at that. “Kept it to your Slayer, didn’t I? Blindsided Angel, carted Dru out o’ that nuthouse while Pint-Size threw down with the big ponce, an’ left the country straight bloody off, just like I promised.” His expression clouded. “Headed for Rio, we were lookin’ to munch down on some Carnaval dancers, till …”

“Till what?” Cordelia asked.

He looked to her, his face sealed. “You’ll see,” he said, and again gestured ahead.

They started off together, Cordelia still holding the dagger in place. After a minute, she said, “How did you find us?”

“Knew where you were comin’, didn’t I?” he scoffed. “ ’Sides, I could hear you bleatin’ about your feet a mile away. Dozy cow.”

“Why can’t you speak English?” she complained. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Try ‘silly bitch’. Bet you’ve heard that one often enough.” He stopped, peering tensely through the darkness ahead. “Wait, what’s that?”

“What?” Cordelia stepped up next to him, trying to make out whatever had alerted him. “I don’t —” And just that quickly, he had caught her hands, pulled them out away from her body, and plucked the dagger from her grasp.

“There,” he said smugly. “Can’t let you go threatenin’ mischief with this little business, can we?” He inspected the dagger briefly, thrust it into the belt of his jeans. “Come ahead, then. Almost the end o’ the road for you.”

 _Crap,_ Cordelia thought. She didn’t try to hide her dismay; if he believed he had actually thwarted her, fine, that would help if she ever had to bluff him _again_ (she should live so long!), but even aside from the suicide bluff, he had just forestalled the last remote possibility of her carrying out the ritual Luz had taught her. Besides, she hated to be outmaneuvered. Dominated. Minimized. She shook her head, set her mouth in a hard line, and continued to walk toward the call that still pulsed subtly through her.

Oh, yeah. Gonna die now. Is this fun, or what?

She had been right, they had been close, within ten minutes she began to see the light ahead. Whether or not Luz had been right about the ceremonial court, she couldn’t tell; as they came to the source of the light, Cordelia could see a cleared space, and some indistinct shapes that could have been overgrown pyramids or just low hills, but no further details could be made out. The light itself was the most interesting feature. Rather than the flaring torches that seemed to be _de rigueur_ for the Sunnydale cheesy-villain crowd, someone had set up a pair of Coleman lanterns to illuminate the scene. And, revealed in the steady bright glow of the lamps —

When Luz had spoken of the Slumberer, Cordelia had formed a vague mental picture of some hulking bogeyman. She knew better, naturally — the mask was what mattered, the demon was contained in the mask — but still she had continued unconsciously to think of the mask _on_ the big, shambling shape of her imagined demon. She had not expected the Slumberer to appear as a slender woman in a flowing red silk dress, of old-fashioned style but flamboyant cut and rich, vibrant hue. Dark hair fell to her shoulders behind the mask … and the mask itself (MesoAmerican Primitive, all elongated eyes and twisted mouth) seemed to be made of some mosaic of small stones.

“Here you are, then,” Spike announced as the two of them approached the masked woman. “Sunnydale prom princess, locked up ’n’ delivered as promised. So we’re square, right? You jump to her, an’ I take Dru an’ hare off to Rio. Right?”

Dru? Drusilla? Oh, hell. Spike was bad enough (more than), but back in the Library it had been repeatedly emphasized that Drusilla was crazy: not just evil, but unpredictable, with psychic forewarning thrown in as an additional wild card. Of course, if Drusilla was possessed by the mask, she wouldn’t be a separate player in this horrendous nightmare, but that was small comfort indeed …

“Do not seek to rush me, half-breed.” The voice that came through the mask was cold, deep, sepulchral. “This vessel is unsuitable, but we have been bound too firmly for over-hasty separation. I felt your undead seer through the ‘trinket’ you gave her as a gift, and called her to me, and found her wanting; you are fortunate that another such was to be found so close at hand, otherwise the process of transfer would be more lengthy, and — for your beloved — perhaps terminally taxing.”

Normally, in panic situations, Cordelia was all about the panic. Now, however, she found her mind unnaturally sharpened, fastening on each detail and leaping to understanding. So _that_ was how the mask had ‘escaped’ this time: it had fastened on Drusilla somehow, and she had _taken_ it out of whatever security the Sisterhood maintained. On the other hand, ‘another such’? Cordelia wasn’t a vampire, so that must mean …

“Uh, excuse me?” She raised her hand. “Not a seer, here. High school junior, senior in another month. Dramatic arts major.”

The cold eyes behind the mask turned on her, and her objection was flicked away with a sharp gesture. “You are a seer, or will be; on the wheel of time, the distinction does not signify. What matters is that you were there, I could feel you, and _you_ are a suitable vessel.” A moment, and the next comment was almost sulky. “This one … resists.”

Oh. Right. Luz had said the mask possessed the wearer’s body and destroyed the soul; if the body held a consciousness _not_ connected to a soul, no surprise if that made for a bad mix. “Look, I really think you’ve got the wrong girl here,” Cordelia protested. “You want a Child of Destiny, I know buckets of ’em, but me? I’m a  _social_ gladiator. Seriously —”

“Bind her,” the mask said to Spike, and on the instant the vampire had seized her and flung her to the ground, pulling her arms behind her back, oh God this was it, _why_ hadn’t she simply refused to come to this dismal hellhole —

Cordelia could not have said what happened next; face-down, she couldn’t see, and the impact had driven her breath out so that she was still half-stunned. Suddenly, though, there was noise: _lots_ of noise, lots of different types. Spike’s snarl and the thud of fists on flesh, an unidentifiable _thwip-thwip-thwip,_ the crash of stone breaking, a scream of rage from the female-vamp-embodied Slumberer, and over it all Luz’s voice shouting, _“Clara, Sancti, Paz, Quiana! Aquí, aquí!”_

Cordelia rolled over, fought her way to her knees, looked around her with dazed eyes. The biggest and most attention-grabbing event in view was Spike, Spike slugging it out with _Boone,_ panther against grizzly, quickness and sheer ferocity hurling itself against pure, massive, irresistible strength. To one side, the Slumberer was being attacked from all sides by the familiar swarm of ninja-ish women. Arrows feathered Drusilla’s body, but either the archers had missed Drusilla’s heart or the mask rendered it impervious to ordinary weapons, because the demon struck out with vampiric speed and viciousness (though not a lot of control, apparently it had been some time between bodies). Cordelia pushed upright, staggering, and Boone slammed Spike down onto a stone table with such force that the broad surface cracked and broke. Whip-quick, Spike was up again and launching himself straight back at Boone, this time abandoning fisticuffs and driving straight for the throat, tearing at the thick neck with the jagged teeth of the fully-revealed vampire. Something was spinning at Cordelia’s feet, she looked down, the dagger had been knocked from Spike’s belt and she snatched it up, little good it would do her against this bunch but at least she wasn’t _completely_ defenseless now …

Luz, Cordelia saw Luz: one arm cradled in a rough sling, a short-sword in the other hand, still shouting orders to her sisters. The Slumberer saw her, too, and went for her. She tried to strike back and retreat at the same time, clearly she was far from full strength, she stumbled and went down backward and the demon was on her, batting away other members of the Sisterhood and reaching for its chosen target.

And Cordelia was striding forward. “Hey!” she shouted. “Hey, you! Jason-wannabe, Freak-Face, Slumber Putz, _I’m_ **talking** _to you!”_

The battle actually paused for a moment as the various combatants stared at the shrieking lunatic who had just interjected herself into the proceedings. “Silence, vessel —” the possessed Drusilla began ominously.

“Cram it, Morning Breath!” Cordelia drew herself up wrathfully in front of the scarlet-gowned figure. “You and everybody else here have made this night a living hell for me, and as of this moment I am _done._ You want me? **Here I am!”**

And, in the moment while the demon was still too nonplussed to react, Cordelia drove the dagger into Drusilla’s body, striking straight to the heart.

The demon’s scream was mirror-echoed by Spike’s howl of fury and horror. Drusilla’s body went taut, practically vibrating in its utter total rigidity, and the mask _was_ vibrating, or else those were waves of heat or light or force radiating out of it. The stones of the mosaic glowed a piercing, almost living turquoise blue, the mask fell from Drusilla’s face —

— and, as it struck the ground, Cordelia yanked the dagger from the body of the vampiress and drove the blade through one of the empty eye-holes, hammering on the hilt with the heel of her palm until the devil-mask was nailed to the rocky earth beneath it.

For just a moment, there was silence.

Drusilla had fallen, too, but now she stirred where she lay. “Spike?” she called plaintively. “Spike, I hurt so dreadfully, it’s all elderberries inside —”

And, “Nobody move!” Spike shouted. Cordelia looked, now _he_ had Luz, again, and in a grating voice he went on. “Back away from her, alla you, or I’ll rip this ’un’s head off ’n’ use the rest o’ you lot for ninepins!”

Cordelia obediently scooted back; the Sisterhood, trading glances with one another, complied more slowly but just as readily. Boone simply stood where he was (nowhere near Drusilla), watching the tableau with a genial smile; dark blood ran from his neck, but he didn’t show any effect from it. Dragging Luz along with him, Spike moved over next to Drusilla, nudged her with his foot. “Hoy, pet, you mobile here? ’Cause I’d say now’s good to scarper for the next border over.”

She lurched upright with a gracelessness that somehow struck Cordelia as unlike her, face set in a grimace. “He left such a horrid taste in my brain,” she whimpered. “An unconscionable impertinence, I’m all squidgy.” Her gaze fell on Cordelia, and in a steadier voice she said to her, _“You_ know how awful it feels to be possessed.”

“I so do not,” Cordelia answered firmly.

Drusilla’s eyes flicked away from her in instant dismissal. “You shall. Spike, I don’t like this place.” She began to pluck arrows from her torso, as absently as if they were burrs stuck to her dress. “Let us away, away, away, to where the centipedes shine and the sea-king dandles the night-worn maidens …”

She started for the tree line, still babbling nonsense; holding Luz with one arm under her chin and the other hand against the back of her head (neck-breaking posture, Cordelia realized), Spike retreated to keep up with Drusilla, still watching them. At the trees he said, “Go your way, an’ I’m well quit o’ this bloody rubbish. Try to follow, I’ll strew body parts up ’n’ down the coastline.” Then, sending Luz at them with a hard shove, he vanished after Drusilla into the darkness.

While Luz was being helped up by her sisters, Cordelia looked to Boone. “Let me guess,” she said. “After all that fuss back in the forest, you and these girls did the old enemies-team-up routine. Cliché much?”

His smile was as imperturbable as ever. “It was a refreshing diversion, but after some, eh, _impassioned_ negotiations, we found we could agree toward a common set of goals.” He pointed to a spot in front of Cordelia. “I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.”

She looked down. At her feet was the bracelet that had started this massive horror-show, and a glance confirmed that her wrist was now bare. “Skewer the demon, demonic accessory drops off,” she murmured. “Really, how hard was _that_ to figure out?” She bent to pick up the bracelet, tossed it to him. “Take it and good riddance. If you happen to see any live volcanoes, feel free to drop that little item right in there.”

He nodded to her. “Vaya con Dios, señorita.”

Cordelia sighed. “I keep telling everybody, _I don’t speak Spanish.”_

His smile broadened. “You should learn,” he said. “You have the temperament for it.” Then he turned away, and moments later he, too, was gone.

That left only the Sisterhood. When Cordelia looked around, Luz was there facing her, her sisters arrayed around her. (One of the ‘sisters’, Cordelia noted with weird detachment, was a Nordic blonde, while another had distinctly Eurasian features.) “You did not use the ritual,” Luz said … but her voice held no condemnation, more of a  _You’re wearing lilac nail polish today_ tone.

Cordelia shrugged. Every part of her ached, smarted, or throbbed, but she kept her own voice matter-of-fact. “Hey: you want to play the scene, you have to know how to ad-lib.”

Luz nodded. “I had serious doubts, but your fortitude was … adequate, for this trial.” She smiled. “You did well. We owe you much.”

“Damn straight,” Cordelia shot back. “And I’m presenting the bill, as of this very moment.”

The dark eyebrows went up. “You wish us to pay you?” Luz asked, as if the thought was amusing.

“No.” Cordelia pointed down at her ten-times-thrice-abused feet. “I want you all to _carry_ me. Starting right now.”


	4. Chapter 4

epilogue

The sun was bright, but the beach umbrella was broad, and Cordelia muted the glare even more with properly stylish sunglasses. She could see the ocean from the hotel’s terrace where (as promised) she rested poolside, and hear the murmur of the waves … and that was all the proximity she needed, she’d had enough Nature In The Raw lately to last her till the end of the year. (Or decade. Or millennium … and, since it was already 1998, that might not even be exaggeration.) On her return to the comforts of civilization, Cordelia had stripped, showered, and then slept for thirteen hours solid; when she woke, well into the afternoon, it was to launch herself into every spa treatment offered by her hotel or any of the nearby establishments. Full-body massage, a deep and agonizing (but _oh_ so welcome) foot massage, steams, soaks, rinses, creams, lotions, oils, shampoos, wraps, facials … and, of course, the most comprehensive, exacting, _meticulous_ pedicure of her entire life.

(The Danicas were in her suitcase. Beyond hope of restoration, they would be buried with honor when she got home.)

All of this was solo. Her mother remained secluded in her own room, her father was still away. (Oh, well, at least he didn’t seem to have a secretary or ‘assistant’ along this time.) At the end of that, and another night’s sleep, Cordelia was ready to proclaim herself almost fully human again. Not completely recovered, not yet, her ordeal was not to be so casually dismissed. But the horror was fading, and she felt … good.

And — no point in denying it — satisfied.

She wasn’t about to get nostalgic over what she’d just gone through. Still, there were moments worth remembering, particularly the one where she marched straight up to the big bad of the moment, told him off in no uncertain terms, and then took that sucker _down._ Back when she’d first begun her involvement with the ‘Scoobies’, but before the unexpected involvement with Xander, he had once challenged her: “If you ever actually have to face a demon yourself, what’re you gonna do, Cordy? _Bitch_ him to death?”

Turned out, that was totally possible.

With a small jolt of surprise, Cordelia realized she had just thought of Xander and _smiled._ Huh. How about that?

A shadow fell beside her lounge chair, and a polite voice at her elbow said, “Good afternoon, señorita. Can I get you anything? Towel, sunscreen, refreshment, something to read?”

Cordelia looked up and thought, _Ooh, juicy._ Aloud she said, “What happened to Reynalda?”

The gorgeous newcomer said, “Her shift has ended, señorita, and now I am to serve you.” He gave her a gleaming smile. “I am Pablo.”

 _I’ll just bet you are._ For an intense, tempting moment Cordelia thought of the whole virginity issue, of exotic locale and vacation memories and what happens in Puerto Escondido stays in …

But please, seriously: a  _servant?_

“I’m mostly good here, Pablo,” she told him, with a potent smile of her own just in _case_ she changed her mind later. “But, yes, a drink would really hit the spot right now.”

The knowing confidence in his eyes cost him points, though it was questionable whether he would ever realize just how much. “And what is the señorita’s pleasure?”

Cordelia thought about it. She really did like margaritas, but for the moment they were connected to unwelcome memories, and piña colada was just _utterly_ off the menu. “I’ll have a strawberry daiquiri,” she decided. “And, Pablo? Keep ’em coming till I say otherwise.”

He departed, and she settled back, content. Yes, better all in all to wait till she got back home. There was, after all, the _boyfriend_ to take into consideration. Plus, the entirety of Senior Year stretched out before her … and, if Cordelia Chase had anything to say about it, that would be one for the record books!

The breeze from the sea was cool. The sun was warm, but kept at a properly respectful distance. And liquid yumminess was on the way.

Life was good.  

end

* * *

> **Afterword:** _the author does not share Cordelia’s opinion of Puerto Escondido. However, all descriptive details are accurate to the extent that research could make them; some things depicted here_ **may** _not have been present in 1998, but every effort was made to provide an authentic representation. The Mixtec ceremonial site described in the narrative was ‘discovered’ in 2000 (i.e., local knowledge became more widely known), and the mask was of the type shown in[GillO](http://gillo.livejournal.com)’s artwork at the beginning of Part I._

* * *


End file.
